And scions soon of noblest race
May pass the night with jailors.
Worse times may come, Bon ton, alas,
Will then be quite forgotten,
And all we much revere will pass
From ripe to worse than rotten;
Rank weeds will sprout between yon stones,
And owls will roost at Boodle’s,
And shame will echo back the tones
Of Coachington, Lord Noodle.